


At the end of the day

by spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Hurt, Imprisonment, Missing Scene, Non-Consensual Violence, Toulon Era, Valjean - world of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean's chain-mate escapes Toulon.   Valjean is suspected as having aided in his escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the end of the day

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this incredible photo of Valjean as portrayed by Hugh Jackman.](http://hugh-fan.com/photos/albums/film/lesmiserables/promo/normal_LESMISPROMO-011.jpg)

Valjean woke with a headache. Not the usual dull ache that he woke with every morning, but a throbbing pain that beat in time with his heart. The groans and swears of the _forçats_ awakening in the _salle_ thundered in his head. Carefully, he opened his eyes and then closed them immediately as the light was blinding. He rolled on his side and curled into a ball. Pressing his hands over his ears, Valjean tried to dull the racket. He rubbed his fingertips against his prickly, recently shaved scalp, and the throbbing subsided somewhat. 

Next to him on the plank he felt his chain-mate, Louis, sit up. Normally, Valjean was the first to move in the morning. Louis would stay lying down, his cap pulled over his eyes until the guard came to unlock their chain, and then Louis would hastily roll to a stand before the guard clubbed him. When Valjean did not move, Louis touched his shoulder. “Jean?” A web of tingles emanated from the touch. 

Valjean swatted at Louis’s hand. “Leave me alone,” he growled. 

Louis hastily pulled his hand back. “Fine, have it your way.” 

By the time the guard made his way over to release their chain, Valjean had managed to lever himself into a sitting position, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. “C’mon, 24601, on your feet,” the guard said. Valjean put his feet on the floor and stood, swaying slightly. Louis, who had been chatting with the next pair over, reached out a hand and grabbed Valjean’s elbow to steady him. The room swam before his eyes for a moment, but then things steadied and he shook Louis off. 

“You all right, Jean? You look a bit…” 

“Since when do you care?” Valjean snapped.

“Since you woke up looking more dead than alive.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Look, Monsieur le Cric, I don’t want to be clubbed because you are moving too slow. Tell me. ”

If for no other reason than to make him shut up, Valjean relented. “My head hurts like a sonofabitch,” he admitted. “My eyeballs are going to pop out.” 

There was a commotion from the other end of the _salle_ as the breakfast was brought in and passed out. Valjean knew he had to eat, but the smell of the beans was rancid and it sent his stomach churning. He pushed his bowl aside and immediately another _forçat_ claimed it. The water was all right and he drank several cupfuls. All too soon, breakfast was over and they were lining up to go out to the worksite. One by one they passed through the door, holding their legs out for their shackles to be examined. Valjean grabbed the doorframe to steady himself as the _rondier_ tested the chain with a hammer. 

Like yesterday it was cold and drizzling. Valjean hated the winters. It almost never properly snowed, of course that would be its own kind of hell, but the raw, wet weather was terrible. His _casaque_ never dried and within minutes of being out, the _patarasse_ protecting and padding his ankle would be wet through and muddy, causing the shackle to chafe. The overcast sky kept the sun from being painfully bright, but that was the only good thing about this shitty weather. 

Miserably, he pulled his red cap with its yellow band down around his ears and trudged along. Louis reached down and picked up their chain in the middle as they walked. Valjean started to shake his head at the uncharacteristic behavior of his chain-mate, but stopped as it sent a wave of dizziness through him. He was loath to admit it, but even with the help Louis was providing, he was struggling to keep up with his chain-mate’s gait. His head still throbbed and the clamor of the clank of the chains was deafening in his ears. He tripped every few steps. Louis turned and hissed at him to keep up before the guard noticed. Valjean struggled on. 

As he started to warm up and move, Valjean’s headache receded. After the first few loads, the work was almost bearable. Within an hour, though, his head was swimming. He staggered as he walked and his peripheral vision had faded. All he could see was what was directly in front of him. He and Louis were working together, carrying a crate, when suddenly the crate shoved into his chest and he went down. He had a vague realization that they were all alone, out of sight of the guards, out of sight of the other _forçats_. He hit the ground, the crate landing on his arm. As he looked up, he saw Louis standing over him. His vision swam and he thought he heard him say, “Goodbye, Jean,” and then the world went black. 

He woke to shouting, a cacophony of voices. 

“My God, over here!”

“Cric, you all right?” 

Then the authoritative voice of a guard, “Get back! You! You! Get that crate off him!”

Groaning as his arm was freed, he rolled over and threw up. The remains of dinner were scanty and the heaves kept coming. 

“Who is his chain-mate?” 

Another guard answered, “28503.” 

There was a clank as the end of the chain was dropped on the ground. The first guard ordered, “Sound the cannon! Do a count!” Valjean heard the sound of running feet and the shouted orders of the guards as they lined up the _forçats_ to be counted. 

There were hands on him, pulling him into a sitting position. He wiped his mouth and sat with his head between his legs, catching his breath. The guard who had been giving the orders crouched down in front of him. “24601,” he said calmly. “Jean, where is 28503?” 

Valjean shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. He glanced up at the guard, recognizing him. As guards went, he was not a terrible one. He used his cudgel freely when it was called for, his aim was precise and his arm strong, but he never struck a _forçat_ unwarranted. “I had no idea…” 

The boom of the cannon echoed through his body and he flinched, remembering the four times the cannon had fired for him. He dropped his head again, rubbing his fingers against his temples.

The guard stood and called over one of the men guarding the lines of _forçats_. “Take him to the infirmary, for now. We’ll question him later.” 

The trip to the infirmary took forever. Walking was hard enough, but dragging a double length of chain made Valjean stagger every time he pulled his shackled leg forward. By the time he got there, he was dizzy. The _forçat_ orderly led him to a cot and he gratefully collapsed onto it. The guard locked his chain down and left him. Valjean slept. 

Some hours later, Valjean awoke, ravenous. Without thinking, he opened his eyes and sat up, grunting as he jostled his injured arm. Why was he in the infirmary? What had happened to his arm? He unbuttoned his _casaque_ and shirt to look at his upper arm. There was a tremendous, ugly, line-shaped welt along his bicep that was swollen and painful, but when he carefully flexed it, the bones seemed unbroken. As he was pulling the shirt back up, the memories came back. A crate had fallen. The headache. _Oh, merde! Louis…._

He sucked his lower lip in, biting down in horror. What were they going to do to him? Jesus. Why had he never wondered that before? What had happened to his former chain-mates? To Alain? To Martin? And, damn, what was his name, the little one? when he himself had tried to escape? He knew he should know but….

He tried to remember if he had heard Louis filing his chain, or if he had seen anything, but the last day was fuzzy. Now that he thought about it, he had gone to sleep feeling unwell, before waking up with that headache. With a groan he flopped back down on the cot and covered his face with his hands. 

It had been nearly a year since he had last tried to escape. Ever since he had gotten out of the hole after that last attempt, he had been trying to behave. In that time he hadn’t been in any serious trouble: he hadn’t been in a fight, he hadn’t mouthed off to a guard, he hadn’t stolen a shiv. He had not stopped thinking about it, but he was learning to master the temptation, to viciously crush the urges that had gotten him in trouble in the past. He left the file in the workshop. He bowed his head and accepted a guard’s excessive punishment without comment. When the moment came and the angry beast erupted in his chest, he was learning to harness it, to wrap its fury in traces that would sustain him through the next day, the next week, the next month in a smoldering rage. 

Lying on the bed, he felt the rage in his chest and the terror. Whatever Louis had done, Valjean knew nothing of it. And yet….and yet…would they hold him responsible? He was the one with the history of escape, not Louis. He did not think they could extend his sentence. But the lash? The dungeon? 

A few minutes later, two guards arrived. The _rondier_ , the guard who usually inspected their chains, came in first, followed by another guard whom he recognized as the guard who had spoken to him to this morning. The guards had a strained look about their eyes and a tight set to their lips. Valjean wondered what had been happening. 

Without a word, the _rondier_ came up to the bed and took hold of Valjean’s leg. He examined the shackle and chain, tapping it with a hammer. Completing his inspection, he said to the other guard, “This chain is sound.” He broke the _organeaux_ , the coupling between Valjean’s chain and Louis’s, and briefly examined the end of the chain that had been attached to Louis’s leg. Shaking his head, he left, carrying the length of chain. 

The second guard came over to the bed. “You’re looking better, 24601,” the guard commented. 

Valjean said nothing but he watched as the guard unlocked his chain. The guard stepped back, gesturing towards the door. “The Commissaire wants to talk to you,” he said gruffly.

Valjean stood, waiting a moment to see if he was still unsteady, but like the headache, it too seemed to have passed. His stomach growled loudly, but both he and the guard ignored it. It would be hours before he was fed. He walked towards the door, the guard behind him. As he walked, Valjean asked, “Did you catch him?” 

The guard said nothing. Valjean looked over his shoulder at the guard, whose only reply was a grim, “Keep walking!” as he raised the cudgel threateningly. Needing no more urging, Valjean walked on in silence. 

The Commissaire’s office was spare, featuring just a desk with a single chair that the Commissaire was sitting in. Valjean came to a stop in front of him. Laid out on the desk was a metal file and a _casaque_. While the uniform was in a crumpled heap, he could see …601 stitched across the back. _Merde!_

With a sigh, the Commissaire picked up the file and walked around to him. “24601,” he said. “Jean Valjean. I thought we had a deal.” 

When Valjean tried to speak he found that his voice was gone. 

“You were going to stay out of trouble, and someday I was going to let you out of here.” 

Wide-eyed, Valjean nodded. 

“Given our deal, 24601, could you explain why we found a file bundled with your clothing?” 

Valjean shook his head. His voice cracked as he spoke, “No…no, sir.” 

“I see,” said the Commissaire.

“It is not mine,“ replied Valjean. 

“Of course not,” the Commissaire said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. 

With a sigh, Valjean looked down. 

“What did you know of 28503’s plans?”

Valjean looked back up. “I knew nothing, sir. I’ve been trying to remember, but I honestly know nothing.” 

“And how could that be, 24601? You never leave his side.” 

Valjean shook his head. “I woke up with a headache this morning. A really bad headache. It was all I could do to stand, to put one foot in front of the other.”

The Commissaire looked at the guard who was standing silently by the door. “Is this true, Javert?”

The guard - _Javert_ , Valjean repeated to himself - considered that for a minute and then nodded. “He did seem a bit off this morning, now that you mention it. Out on the docks he was dragging behind 28503. Usually it is the other way around.”

The Commissaire turned and addressed Valjean, “And you feel better now?”

Valjean nodded. “I slept in the infirmary. I woke up feeling…” he shrugged, “normal.” 

The Commissaire walked back around his desk and sat in his chair, tapping the file in his palm as he stared into space. Silence stretched for what seemed like an eternity to Valjean. Finally, Valjean spoke up. “What is going to happen to me?”

The Commissaire looked back at him. “That is what I am trying to figure out. It all comes down to if you were 28503’s accomplice or not.” 

Valjean shook his head, “I told you, I knew nothing of what he planned.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” 

Valjean relayed what he could remember. Going to sleep early, feeling sick. Waking up with the throbbing head. Louis being up first. Being unable to eat breakfast. Struggling to the worksite as Louis carried the chain, and then work, barely aware of his surroundings. “He was behaving strangely. Almost nice until he knocked me over with the crate. I passed out. That must have been when he broke the chain. I did not know he was gone until I came to.” 

The Commissaire nodded. “Well, your story agrees with the reports I have had,” he said. “Which is my dilemma.”

Not understanding, Valjean looked at him and waited. 

After a minute, the Commissaire looked back at Valjean. “28503, Louis Thierry, is dead,” he said. “So is a guard.” 

Valjean felt his knees go weak and he took a step back before he lost his balance. 

“My problem is this. I believe that you had nothing to do with it, but a guard is dead, 24601. A guard is dead. And,” he held up the file and gestured at Valjean’s _casaque_ with it, “there is this evidence. You understand my dilemma?”

“Yes, sir,” Valjean whispered. 

The Commissaire looked at the guard. “Get him out of here, Javert. Take him out to the yard to wait. I am going to talk to the _Préfet Maritime_.” 

With a curt nod, Javert took hold of Valjean’s undamaged arm. “C’mon,” he said. 

Valjean let himself be led out. The yard, that probably meant a flogging. They’d do it as the work crews were coming back for dinner. He had no idea what time it was, but once they went outside, he could see the sun low in the sky. There would not be long to wait. The rain from the morning had cleared up, and now it was just cold. Javert led him to a stretch of wall and pulled out his cuffs. Valjean silently held out his wrists. 

Leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, he gripped the chain that connected his wrists and twisted it. What would it be? A flogging? The dungeon? They couldn’t extend his sentence, could they? They wouldn’t…would they? Or another stint on the double chain? He had been trying so hard. He did nothing and…here he was. Oh, how he hated them. If only his hands were free, he would throttle that guard… no, they would kill him for that… if only he could…. but they would catch him… if only…. but…No. No! **No!** He pulled on the chain he held in his hands. _No,_ he whispered to himself. He would be free, one day. _I will be free_.

Valjean could hear the work crews coming back. He opened his eyes and watched as the guards lined them up on their knees to watch. A little knot of three _forçats_ , the _bourreaux_ who would administer the flogging, gathered in front of the crowd. A guard, carrying the whip, walked over to them. The Commissaire walked out into the yard and watched from off to the side. Javert came back. “It’s time, 24601. Your hands.” Valjean held out his wrists and Javert removed the cuffs.

This was not Valjean’s first flogging, not by a long shot. He had witnessed hundreds, perhaps thousands, by now. Eight times in the last fourteen years, it had been him. He knew all too well what was expected of him. He removed his _casaque_ and shirt, and handed them to Javert. The cold air raised goosebumps on his chest and back, and he shivered. The cold would make it worse. 

Javert walked him toward the _bourreaux_ and he took deep breaths of cold air as he tried to relax his shoulders. He remembered the first time he had made this walk. He had been in the bagne for not even a year when he had found himself caught up in a fight. He had not started it. He had not intended to be involved, but when the fists started flying, he had been unable to escape. When it was over, after the guards had come in with their cudgels and had broken up the melee, his black eye and bloody knuckles had been evidence enough to prove his involvement. 

He and his chain-mate Alain, a wiry, tough veteran, had been two of the ten people flogged that day. Standing against the wall with Alain, twisting and worrying the chain on the handcuffs he wore as he waited for his turn, Valjean had been trembling and terrified. The detachment that usually protected his mind had shattered and everything about the moment was crystal clear and vividly real. His chain-mate had whispered to him as they waited. “Take some deep breaths, Jean. The more tight your muscles are, the worse it will be.” 

As he walked up to the three _bourreaux_ , he recalled Alain’s words as he always did. Tonight his anger at the circumstance, the unfairness of the punishment, the cold air, were making it impossible. He glared at the despicable men waiting for him. The Fontaine brothers, a matched set of murderers, green caps, both of them, were oily sleaze. When they had been in the _salles_ , they had ratted out three or four escape plans each, before their fellows got wise. As a reward for their behavior, they were put on the _demi-chaîne_ and _petite fatigue_ , serving as _bourreaux_. The third, the one with the whip in his hands, was said to have been a guard at Brest. It was said that he had helped a convict escape, only to murder him in the woods. It was said he had raped the new ones, the young ones. It was said he had killed another guard in his sleep. It was said he had a thing for little boys. No one knew. No one knew much about him. However, he was despised above everyone. If he ever found himself out in the general population, out of the protection of the guards, he would be torn to pieces in minutes. 

As Valjean walked up, the Fontaine brothers moved to grab his arms, to force him to his knees, but with a growl, Valjean tore his arms from their grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Javert ready his cudgel and several other guards take a step forward. With a glare at all of them, Valjean got to his knees with as much dignity as he could muster, and then held out his arms for the brothers to take them. His arms were twisted into a lock and he hissed as the bruised arm screamed in pain. 

Valjean could not see the Commissaire, but he could hear him pronounce the punishment. “Prisoner 24601 will have 10 lashes for possession of a file.” 

All he could think was, 10 lashes, and then…and then what? Was there more? 

And then the flogging began. He did not bother counting. He focused on his breathing. 

When it was over, the Fontaine brothers let him go and he collapsed to all fours. Slowly, he regained his feet and Javert threw his _casaque_ over his shoulders. “C’mon,” he said. 

“What now?” Valjean asked. Ten stripes of fire criss-crossed his back. A few drips of blood tickled as they ran down his skin. It could have been worse. 

“The blacksmith. You’re going to be joined to a _forçat_ who’s been in the hole for the last month.” 

Trudging along, unable to believe this turn of events, Valjean asked, “And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” replied Javert. 

“You mean, they aren’t going to extend my sentence?” 

“No.” 

“Or throw me in the hole?” 

“I thought you had nothing to do with the escape, 24601.” 

“I didn’t!”

“Then why would you get sent to the dungeon?” 

“I…” Valjean shut his mouth, figuring it out. With a nod, he replied, “I wouldn’t.”

Together, they walked to the blacksmith’s in silence.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to the four people who beta'ed this story: stephantom, MissM, prudencepaccard and lsl. Together they provided input on plot, characterization, historical accuracy and, of course, corrected my grammar.


End file.
